by Melanie Rawn
Moving to the workbench, he retrieved a muller. Then, cupping a delicate fingerbone in his palm, he carried it from table to workbench and laid it on the slab of marble. With infinite care, he began to grind bone into a dust that would be mixed with pigment and media into a new paletto of paints.
SIXTY-TWO
Eleyna stared resolutely out the window of the studio, feeling the morning sunlight wash across her body. Her hands clasped the arms of the chair; her left middle finger still hurt where he had taken blood. She did not watch Giaberto paint the finishing touches on the painting that would render her barren. Or at least, she thought bitterly, only seal what was already true.
Except wasn’t it true that she could give life through her art? Perhaps all that was generative in her had been poured into the path that led from her eyes to her hands. How unlike her mother she was: Dionisa had given birth to nine children, only two of whom had died, the elder twins. Eight-year-old twin girls and two younger boys still lived in the crechetta. It was not too much of a sacrifice for Dionisa Grijalva to allow one daughter to bear no children in her turn, especially not a daughter who had failed to produce a living child in two rounds of Confirmattio and three years of marriage.
A year or two at most. It would not be so bad.
“It is done,” said Giaberto.
She sat, unable to move, astonished and horrified that she had felt nothing. She had passed from one state to the next, but she had no memory of the change. Nothing had warned her. Sunlight bathed her gown, falling in its ripples down to the floor. Surely a cloud should have veiled the sun, altering the light, shadowing her body. She would have painted it so, using light and shadow and the composition of the frame itself to tell this story of loss.
“The carriage comes in one hour,” said Giaberto unnecessarily.
Gowns had been sewn and packed. Her pencils, chalk, paints and paper, even two prepared panels of wood, were arrayed in a locked chest together with some of the Grijalva jewels: all the items she and her mother deemed most precious—though they did not agree on which was which.
She rose and, without asking her uncle’s permission, came around to look at the painting. At the far end of the room Agustin drew on glass, immersed in his studies. Giaberto hesitated, as if to shield the portrait from her. When he did move, he palmed a vial of oil: tincture of fennel, she thought, from the lingering scent.
She studied herself. Only her body from neck to hips was fully painted, highlighting the curve of her abdomen and breasts under her white muslin gown. The rest of her, head and skirts and hands poised lightly on the chair arms, was unfinished, a shaded brush sketch against the ground.
A strangely giddy feeling took hold of her: Her torso was the only part the family controlled. The rest was hers to finish.
Eleyna nodded coolly at Giaberto. She could not truly be angry at him. Like her, he had his own hidden ambitions. She left the studio, descended the stairs, and made her way to the tile courtyard. There she waited by the fountain, letting the play of the water on the azulejos soothe her.
At midday the servants brought four chests down, three for her and one for Beatriz, brought traveling bags for the duennia, Mara. Beatriz looked sunny and sweet in a white traveling dress of muslin stamped with deep purple patterns so tiny they seemed more suggestion than reality. Mara, a white-haired, spry old woman, was dressed in a sober gray gown in the style of Grand Duchess Mechella’s time; one of “Mechella’s orphans,” she had found service in Palasso Grijalva.
At last the carriage arrived. Her mother hurried down—to make sure she went. Grijalva servants escorted her to the street and a liveried servant helped Eleyna into the carriage. Beatriz and Mara followed. The door shut. The latch clicked into place. With a jerk, the carriage started forward.
The journey to Chasseriallo seemed entirely too short. They drove up into the hill country away from the marshlands. This time of year, the countryside lay bountifully green around them. A few puddles were all that remained of this morning’s rain. Vineyards and olive trees covered hillsides. A line of cypress trees marked a nobleman’s house.
“That is the lodge belonging to the do’Casteyas,” said Mara. “They raise hounds there.”
It would have been nice to paint hounds, long-limbed, graceful creatures, rather than those awful fat pugs, beloved by the do’Casteya Countess of this generation. But at least Count Maldonno appreciated her painting!
“You’ve been here before, Mara?” Beatriz asked.
“I have traveled in the service of the Grijalvas.” The old woman kissed bunched fingers and touched them to her heart. “I saw many things, good and ill.”
“Such as?” Beatriz loved stories about the old days, the more lurid the better.
“Pluvio en laggo, mennina. It is better not to stir up memories that will do no one any good.”
The carriage slowed and turned, lumbering down a lane set between poplars. Pasture spread beyond, and sheep grazed. The carriage trundled up a rise and they saw, below in a hollow, the slate roof and stone tower of the hunting lodge. As they started down, it vanished from view. More trees appeared, an orchard of tangerine, lime, lemon, and fig.
Eleyna shut her eyes. She felt nauseated.
“Look at the gardens!” said Beatriz in an awed undertone. “I shall be happy here!”
It was such an odd thing to say, and infused with such meaning, that Eleyna forgot to be anxious. She opened her eyes to see Beatriz’s face shining as she stared out the window.
The carriage wheels crackled over gravel as the horses rounded the drive and were led through a gateway. Once in Chasseriallo’s courtyard, the coachman opened the door and a footman helped them out.
The courtyard lay all in sun except for the western wall, whose shadowed rim presaged the coming end of day. White gravel was raked in pinwheels, giving the courtyard a festive look, and at every window flower boxes bloomed with chrysanthemums and bright marigolds. But the courtyard was empty. No servants waited beneath the arcade. No curious maids stared down at them from the balconies. Don Edoard had not come outside to greet his new Mistress.
The doors that led into the lodge flew open. An elderly man hurried out, followed by servants, who took the luggage.
“I beg your pardon, Maessa. I am Bernadin, Don Edoard’s steward. If you will come with me, grazzo.” As was proper, he addressed his comments to Mara. Eleyna felt slightly ill, realizing that she might have to endure an elaborate fiction designed to mask her real purpose here. “The young Dons arrived yesterday, but then we had news of a fair at the village of Ramo Treio, which lies some twenty miles farther into the hills.” They crossed under the arcade and entered the lodge. The entryway was dark and dank, very old-fashioned. “It was all quite unexpected, the possibility of a cockfight—although I beg your pardon to speak of such things in front of the young ladies—a horse race, some horse trading perhaps. Eiha! Here we are.”
Looking relieved of an onerous burden, Bernadin showed them into a parlor made gaudy by the amount of gilt ornamenting the ceiling. He retreated, closing the door behind him. Eleyna, watching him go, could not but be struck by the monumental frame of marble columns, one on each side, that encased the door, which was surmounted by a marble frieze of cavorting nymphs. She might as well be in a mausoleum.
A slight man stood warming himself by a brazier. He stood next to a huge window that looked out over a field of poppies and wild grass. This window was framed by an imposingly ugly window case, columns of gilded wood and a pediment topped by two reclining ladies carved in blond wood.
After a pause, the man turned. An almost comical expression crossed his face: dismay quickly smothered by a noble attempt at polite interest. He was young, with light hair and attractive features. But it was not his face that caught Eleyna’s eye: it was the perfection of his clothing. He was so terribly well-dressed that of himself he seemed a commentary on the appalling decor of the room.
“That is not Don Edoard,” said Beatriz in a low v
oice.
Eleyna tore her gaze away from his perfectly tied cravat. She felt herself blush. “That is Don Rohario.”
The young man touched his cravat, inspecting it with his fingers. “You are here,” he said; unnecessarily, Eleyna thought.
There was an interlude of silence while they all collected their thoughts. Footsteps sounded above, the servants moving through the upper level. The clock on the sidetable clicked over the quarter hour, chiming merrily. Finally, Rohario cleared his throat and ventured forward a few steps. “It appears I am to be your host for a day or two. My brother is, unfortunately, not here.” He took three more steps forward. “You are Eleyna Grijalva.”
“Yes, I am. We have had the honor of meeting, have we not, Don Rohario? May I present my sister, Beatriz, and Maessa Mara? Where is your brother?”
He rubbed his hands together as if they were cold. He coughed. “Eiha. Yes.” He went on haltingly, obviously embarrassed. “Edoard heard there was a fair—”
“In Ramo Treio. Your steward mentioned it.” Despite everything, Eleyna was beginning to enjoy herself. Let him squirm now.
“Yes. My brother is enthusiastic about—” He coughed again. He wasn’t just embarrassed; he was mortified. “Horse racing is one of his enthusiasms. I, ah, I—”
“You don’t care for horse racing?” Eleyna asked sweetly.
“Eleyna!” scolded Mara in a whisper.
“No, I don’t. He intends to buy a horse or two, but he has a terrible eye for horseflesh. If one of the grooms isn’t there to advise him, he buys the worst broken-down old hacks—” He stuttered to a halt.
With each passing minute, as the absurdity of the situation mounted, Eleyna’s heart lightened. “When will he be back?”
Rohario turned his head and looked mournfully at a panel of men riding to the hunt, painted in an overly-colored style, copying the Old Masters without the least understanding of their genius. “That’s just it,” he said reluctantly. “I don’t know.”
“Matra ei Filho,” said Beatriz under her breath.
Mara pressed a hand to her bosom. “Neosso do’Orro!”
Eleyna snorted. Unable to stop herself, she began to laugh.
SIXTY-THREE
It was an unmitigated disaster. Rohario could only assume that he was doomed to humiliate himself in front of Eleyna Grijalva time and time again. He fiddled with the buttons on the sleeve of his coat, caught himself, stopped, and cleared his throat.
“Dinner will be served in three hours,” he said finally.
The two sisters looked much alike, attractive as most Grijalva women were rumored to be. Eleyna was petite, Beatriz more robust and slightly taller. But for all the seeming fragility in Eleyna’s build, Rohario did not trust the iron gleam in her eye; she was being pleasant now, but he had heard her explode in temper. Beatriz looked more tractable.
The duennia whispered to Eleyna.
“I’m not tired.” The gleam in Eleyna’s eye brightened dangerously.
“I would be honored to show you around,” said Rohario hastily. In fact, he had been bored.
“Are all the rooms like this?” asked Eleyna. “It reminds me of the Galerria.”
Matra Dolcha! Rohario bit down on a grin, since it was unseemly of a man to make a jest of anything related to his mother. “Grand Duchess Mairie was a fine woman, may her memory be blessed, but it is true she and my father believed that gold and ornament are the chief marks of good taste.”
“‘Solidity, conveniency, and ornament.”’
He laughed. “The three qualities that make a magnificent building. You have read Ottonio della Mariano’s monograph?”
“His architectural studies are very good. If there must be so much ornament, however, I would rather it be less solid and more of a piece.”
“Eleyna!” This blunt speaking clearly shocked the duennia.
But Rohario was delighted. “You must see the banquet hall! It hasn’t changed in three hundred years. Most of the suites upstairs were redone twenty years ago when my mother decided to use Chasseriallo as a retreat. That’s when the lower rooms were redecorated as well, and larger windows added.”
“All in this style?” Eleyna asked, looking dubious. As well she might.
“Less monument, more ornament,” he said, and she responded with a chuckle. At last! He had found someone who detested these styles as much as he did.
“Might we tour the gardens as well?” asked Beatriz in a prettily hesitant voice.
The duennia coughed again, meaningfully, but Rohario was not in a mood to placate old-fashioned notions of propriety, not after his father had exiled him to this awful old house that had only two fireplaces and the most execrable wallpaper.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said enthusiastically.
Afternoon quickly became evening as he showed them round the apartments. The women finally left him to go upstairs and dress for dinner. In his bedchamber, Rohario whistled as he tied his cravat, adding an extra flourish. Should he leave the lowest button on his cuffs unfastened, as was fashionable these days at Court? Or ought he to be more formal? After much consideration, and examining the effect from every possible angle, he decided in favor of the more conservative style. Grazzo do’Matra his waistcoat did not clash with the wallpaper; that had been chance good fortune. And since he preferred evening coats of the finest subtle gray, a color beyond reproach, he was certainly safe there. At last he was satisfied. Even a woman with as sharp an eye as Eleyna Grijalva would notice nothing amiss.
But soon enough Edoard would return. Rohario grimaced. Edoard had been so keen to take a Grijalva Mistress, but like most of his enthusiasms this one had as much permanence as the wink of frost on a cool morning. As soon as the sun rose, it melted.
But Edoard was not here now.
Over dinner Rohario and Eleyna argued about which of the Old Masters was best. “No, I can’t agree,” he said over fricando of veal. “Just because Guilbarro Grijalva’s life was cut tragically short doesn’t mean he can’t be counted among the finest masters.”
“I will agree that his Birth of Cossima is a masterpiece.”
“Why not Riobaro? Everyone acknowledges him as one of the finest painters of the Grijalva line.”
She considered while a servant offered her curried rabbit. “His work is beautiful, of course, but I can’t help thinking it derivative. As if he was trying to let someone else speak through his hands. I can’t explain it.”
Rohario laughed. “Then who?”
“Sario Grijalva, of course. His altarpiece, his portrait of Saavedra—”
There was an uncomfortable pause. The First Mistress. Rohario fidgeted in the silence while the servants brought round puddings and a buttered lobster.
Mara coughed. Eiha! What an annoying habit. But Rohario was grateful to her for breaking the silence. “Any painter would wish to emulate Sario Grijalva,” Mara said.
With a flourish made dramatic by the use of a silver fork, Eleyna came back to life. “But too many painters have tried to copy Sario’s style rather than creating their own. Aldaberto and Tazioni painted in their own way. There is much we can learn from them. Miquellan Serrano was—”
“Eleyna!” The old duennia looked scandalized. “That any Grijalva would praise the man who painted that insulting Rescue!” Then she looked abashed, as if she had not meant to remind Rohario of the Grijalva’s chi’patro origins.
“He was a fine painter,” insisted Eleyna. “No matter that he feuded with our family. It is ridiculous we only praise Grijalva painters. Others have genius as well. There was a painter in Friesemark named Huesandt who died about fifty years ago. He is a true master! He paints his subjects so beautifully that you feel as if you know their inner hearts. And there is another painter from Friesemark, Meyseer. He uses light beautifully. He had a pupil known as The Vethian.’ She abandoned her family and husband in Vethia in order to study with Meyseer, throwing her old life away only to paint.” Her face shone when she spoke so passi
onately. It startled and disturbed Rohario. In his father’s court, enthusiasm was suspect. He pretended to indifference. “Have you seen these reproductions? The work of these painters?” she continued, leaning forward. Her hair, bound up with ivory combs, and the simple necklace of pearls she wore shone in the unsteady light of the candlabra.
Her words made him remember with awful clarity the Iluminarres riot: the young apprentices who had attacked him with such anger; Sancto Leo’s senseless death. What had provoked it all? What else was out there in the world that he had ignored, or never known existed?
“No,” he said quietly, chastened. “We have seen none of their work in the Palasso. My father wants only the paintings from Tira Virte displayed in the Galerria, and Grand Duchess Johannah is not interested in art.” Then, wanting to see her face light up again, he asked: “But perhaps you could tell me more about them.”
The next morning Rohario got up at midday as usual, but he found the breakfast room empty. He barely tasted fresh rolls and tea before he ventured outside.
The gardens lay beyond the courtyard wall. Once part of the fortifications for the lodge, the wall was now a picturesque ruin, worn down by time and rain. Through gaps in the wall he saw the winding trails, the topiary, and swathes of white flowers coming into bloom with the rains. The last droplets of morning rain still clung to the blossoms and to the leaves of trees, although by now the sky had cleared, bringing with it the sun.
There, among the flowers, he saw Beatriz. She looked lovely, carefully cutting stems and placing flowers neatly in a long basket. She wore a handsome bonnet and a morning dress cut to reveal her graceful neck.
She greeted him prettily and without the least sign of self-consciousness. “It is a lovely garden, Don Rohario. Your gardener tells me the herb garden has been let run wild.” Thus she pleaded, with a nicely understated silence.
He smiled politely. “I am sure he would let you take the garden in hand.” As he spoke, he looked around. “I have not seen your sister.”